


Breakdown of the Soul

by Jinx72



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ana is a good egg, Gabe is good BF, I just wanted them to be happy, Jack Needs a Hug, Jack has an attack, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Old Men Being Cute, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Reaper76 - Freeform, a Jack Attack, but they aren't old here, im sorry, some kind of attack, sorry if poor representation, writing about mental issues I know little about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinx72/pseuds/Jinx72
Summary: The human mind, soul and body are heavily linked. Every human must have all to live. The mind commandeers the soul and body. The soul strengthens the body and mind. The body houses the mind and soul. All three are irreversibly linked, bound with bonds we can never truly understand. A broken body affects the others. A shattered mind damages its counterparts. A wrecked soul destroys its partners.It is so very important to keep all together, to keep it all well, and damn near impossible to do it alone. The man in the centre of the room knows that he shouldn’t be alone in his office right now. He should not be ignoring his friends, no, hisfamilylike this. He knows he shouldn’t be avoiding everyone… but he does.And the damage begins.





	Breakdown of the Soul

The human mind, soul and body are heavily linked. Every human must have all to live. The mind commandeers the soul and body. The soul strengthens the body and mind. The body houses the mind and soul. All three are irreversibly linked, bound with bonds we can never truly understand. A broken body affects the others. A shattered mind damages its counterparts. A wrecked soul destroys its partners.  
It is so very important to keep all together, to keep it all well, and damn near impossible to do it alone. The man in the centre of the room knows that he shouldn’t be alone in his office right now. He should not be ignoring his friends, no, his _family_ like this. He knows he shouldn’t be avoiding everyone… but he does.  
And the damage begins.

Well, the damage had begun long before, with hairline cracks which no one could see, which he could hardly feel or know of. When soldiers died on his commands. When friends hurt. When his family left him alone more and more. He shouldered it. All of it. He had to. The UN expected it of him. Overwatch expected it of him. The people, the _world,_ expected it of him.  
But as cracks are wont to do, when stress increases, they open and widen, bringing the item closer to its breaking point.  
He can’t stop. Not now, not ever. The entire thing will fall apart if he stops. Wars will be lost, people will die, organisations and governments will crumble if he stops. He is the front man, the camera boy, the head. He has to do this, he has to make all the decisions. It all has to come through him. He’s the Strike Commander, after all, and they’d never appoint anyone as Strike Commander if they couldn’t do the job. He has to do it. He _has_ to.

The cracks are growing wider. Maybe that’s why he’s standing in his office, lights off, curtains drawn, hands palms-down on his desk as he watches them shake, realises his entire body is shaking. A call comes through on the holo-screens. He doesn’t bother to see who it is. He promptly cancels the call and switches the system off. He can’t deal with it now. He knows he has to at some point, but just not _now._  
_“Strike Commander?”_ a synthesised woman’s voice asks, echoing from the small speaker over his desk.  
“Not now, Athena,” he grumbles back, his voice hoarse and quiet in the silence of his office. The only light comes from under his door, which he’d chosen to lock, so the room feels marvellously empty for the first time in… weeks? Months? The man heaves out a heavy, shaking sigh. Who even knows anymore. It feels like centuries since he was promoted to Strike Commander.  
_What was he doing? He’s a soldier, not a commander, of all things. He was far better at following orders than giving them._  
_‘No,’_ he tells himself. _‘They made me Strike Commander because I could do it. And I have to. Pull yourself together, Morrison.’_  
The voice, belonging to the resident AI of Overwatch, who, along with running the system, also keeps tabs on all the agents’ wellbeing in case she needs to send emergency help to an agent, speaks again. _“Strike Commander Morrison? Are you alright?”_  
“I’m fine, Athena,” he growls, tensing all over as his fingernails dig into the expensive mahogany of his desk. He’s still shaking, even more so, but he’s _fine._ He doesn’t need _help._ He can do it. He _has_ to. 

The AI stops inquiring, hopefully convinced, and he begins to lower himself into his chair, knowing that he needs to ground himself somehow. He just needs to-  
The chair isn’t there. He had moved it at some point when on a video call with some prime minister or president when he had to stand and had never put it back. He ends up on the floor, the dull grey carpet a stark contrast to the elegant blue of his immaculate uniform. He’s still shaking. He wants it all to go away for just a day or two, at least. To let him recover. His body can take it. His mind can take it.  
His soul can’t.  
But he needs it to. It _has_ to.  
But he can’t stop the cracks. They spread and spread, weaving through his soul and into his mind and body, which continues to shake uncontrollably. He crawls under his desk and pulls himself into a ball to try and keep some form of control but it’s not enough. He hides under his desk like a child in a thunderstorm to keep the outside world away. Something wet stains his uniform, darkening the bright blue. He looks down at it, surprised and irritated. He must’ve left a glass of something on his desk which he knocked over on the way down. He’s going to have to get this cleaned, another thing on the list and-  
It takes a full minute or two for him to realise he’s actually crying.

Now he’s noticed it, he can’t stop, burying his head in his knees and rocking, sobbing uncontrollably as he shudders under his desk. The last thing he wants or needs is be alone right now, but there’s no one here to do otherwise. Just like everything else, it’s just him. And here alone, nothing can stop his soul from shattering.  
The sobs rise to keening wails as he stays still under the desk. The rocking stops, but the shaking does not. He cries into his knees, wrapping his arms around his head to try and block out, to force out the world but it’s not enough.  
It’s never enough.  
_He’s_ never enough.

He can’t think. He can’t move. He can hardly breathe as the only thing he can understand right now is the loneliness. The hopelessness. He was never enough. He couldn’t do this. He can’t. What the UN thought, what Overwatch thought, what his friends thought when they congratulated him for his promotion was all _wrong. They were all wrong. He can’t do this. Any of this! He’s hopeless and worthless and they were so wrong in putting him here. They should’ve given the role to Gabriel from the very start. Gabriel would never be like this. Gabriel could work through it. Gabriel was strong. Gabriel was meant for this job._  
Why is he, of all people, stuck here? He was going to die trapped in a role he couldn’t complete.  
But he has to.  
They all expect it.  
HE HAS TO.

He is so out of it that he doesn’t hear the knocking at the door. It starts off polite, before growing in volume until whoever it is is pounding furiously at the door. The door handle rattles as someone tries to open the door. He begins to notice it. He thinks he hears a voice.  
“Jack! Jack, are you in there?”  
Maybe if he stays here, they’ll go away.  
“That’s it, _pendejo._ You better be standing back. I’m coming in!”  
There’s a loud _crash_ as his door, despite the military-grade locks, gets kicked in. He flinches under his desk, going quiet, but the shaking never stops.  
The room is flooded with warm light from outside, in the corridor.  
“Sorry about the door,” whoever it is continues, and heavy footsteps enter his office. “I’ll get it repaired, I promise. Athena said you weren’t well. …Jack?”  
He curls into himself further, trying to disappear.  
“Jack, are you here?”  
The whine that escapes his mouth is pathetic and soft, so soft that he desperately hopes it goes unnoticed. The Strike Commander can’t be seen like this. The Strike Commander has to be perfect and poised at all times. Ready for anything.  
The Strike Commander has to-  
A quiet sob tears itself out of him before he can stop it.  
“Jack? _Amigo?”_  
The footsteps rush around his office, searching for him.  
“Jack? _Mi luna,_ say something,” the person repeats, and he nearly sounds like he’s begging.  
The person, the man, comes around to his desk, before finally noticing him under it.  
The man kneels down, he can feel his warm presence beside him. He only notices now that his office is cold, nearly unbearably so.  
Someone once told him the brain works better in the cold. He must’ve tried to take it to heart.  
The man puts a steady hand on his shaking shoulder, the contact drawing him back to the world slightly.  
“Jack,” the man repeats insistently.  
Finally, he looks up, ready to see who has come to tell him what to do, what to add to his already over-packed schedule, what’s gone wrong, what urgent paperwork needs to be filled or what politician demands to speak to him _right now-_  
But instead, he sees an angel.  
_His_ angel.

Gabriel, the man himself, is kneeling there beside him, a hand on his shoulder and the most genuine look of concern and worry in his dark eyes. “Jackie, what’s wrong?” Gabriel asks, and he looks at him, lost for what to say, unable to say anything. He must look pathetic, trying to desperately hold himself together underneath his desk. Some Strike Commander he is.  
He whines again as the tears begin to roll down his cheeks with extra fervour, burying his head into his knees once more.  
“Oh, Jackie,” he hears Gabriel murmur. He flinches as he feels Gabriel climb under the desk with him and pull him into a tight embrace. “It’s okay. I’m here now. It’s okay. Just let it out.”  
He lifts his head to reprimand the man, to tell him he doesn’t need to let it out, there’s nothing to let out, but he catches Gabriel’s warm brown eyes, and the look of understanding and compassion in them, and the words die in his throat. He stares into Gabriel’s eyes for a second, his thoughts and feelings going haywire, before the shaking returns tenfold and he buries his head in Gabriel’s chest and begins to sob even harder. Gabriel holds him closer, cradling him to his chest as he rocks them both back and forth. “It’s okay, Jackie. _Mi luna. Cariño._ You’re okay.”  
Gabriel keeps this up for god knows how long, until the shaking stops, the tears dry out, the mind begins to work again, and he has to try and pick up the pieces of his soul and stick it back together. He pulls away from Gabriel, and Gabriel lets him go slowly. He lets Gabriel help him out from underneath the desk, which was a small space for one full-grown man, let alone two super soldiers.  
He rubs his sleeve across his eyes, drying his face as Gabriel waits patiently beside him.  
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says. Maybe it wasn’t what he thought he’d say first, but he genuinely means it.  
“Don’t be, Jack,” Gabriel replies, taking his free hand in both of his own.  
He looks at Gabriel with a _don’t-be-stupid_ sort of a look.  
“Do you have any idea of the amount of times Ana or Jesse has found me in the corner of my office, as I just… I dunno. Break down?” Gabriel says, his voice firm and wobbling slightly with emotion.  
He shakes his head in response. He doesn’t.  
“Too often,” is all Gabriel says, taking his other hand in his own.  
“We’re all here for you, Jack.”  
He ducks his head, ashamed. “I shouldn’t let my emotions get the best of me,” he mumbles, his voice tired and hoarse. “It won’t happen again.”  
He can feel Gabriel’s glare burning into his scalp.  
“What the fuck, Jack.”  
He looks up, alarmed.  
“That is how these things happen,” Gabriel laughs in a not-funny way. He sounds nearly hysterical. “You bottle it up more and more until the bottle breaks and it’s not fun for anyone.”  
He looks away, not wanting to meet Gabriel’s eyes. His gaze wanders to the doorway, where he notices another one of his best friends, Ana, standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe with an empathetic look on her face.  
“You need to rest, Jack,” Gabriel says gently, drawing his attention back to the man before him, holding his hands.  
“But-” he goes to protest.  
“But nothing,” Ana pipes up from the doorway. Both men turn to look at their Egyptian friend. She tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear and smiles gently. “I’ll cover for you for two weeks, plus the rest of today, Jack. Your break is _long_ overdue.”  
“But-”  
“Jack, you keep the most meticulous notes, _and_ I help you organise your schedule. If anyone here understands your job, it’s me,” Ana interrupts, before smiling and adding; “And Gabe.”  
“You’ve burnt yourself out, _cariño,”_ Gabriel murmurs, pressing the knuckles of Jack’s right hand to his lips. “If you keep going, you may kill yourself.”  
“M-maybe… I deserve it…” he mumbles, his voice dying away but his intention so clear.  
“No, _cariño. Mi luna. Mi amor._ You do so much for everyone. You don’t deserve that. Not at all. The only thing you deserve is a break. And some sleep. And this,” Gabriel lists, and before he can query as to what _this_ is, Gabriel places a soft, tender kiss on his lips.  
Ana places a hand on both of their shoulders, gently leading them both out of his office. “Take him back to his quarters, Gabriel. And don’t worry, Jack. I’ve got this,” she smiles, patting his shoulder softly, before turning back to his office and switching on the light.  
“Okay…” he whispers, allowing Gabriel to lead him by the hand back to his room.  
Some agents see them in the halls. Some stare. Most offer sympathetic smiles, as if they know. Before he’s aware of it, him and Gabriel are back at his on-base quarters. He’s so dedicated, so _obsessed_ with doing his job and doing it well, that he lives on base all year round. Gabriel lets him key in the code, and leads him inside, sitting him down on the ancient but comfy couch that he has as the door automatically closes behind them. Gabriel sits at one end, and pats his lap, encouraging him to lie down. “C’mon, Jackie,” he says, smiling kindly, eyes sparkling. “You must be exhausted.”  
So, he lies down on the couch, using Gabriel’s lap as a pillow, kicking off his boots as he goes. After throwing a nearby blanket over him, Gabriel runs his fingers through his golden hair, petting lightly at his temples, where more and more silver strands show themselves every day, a stark and constant reminder of the passage of time, and how he just doesn’t have enough of it. His eyes drift closed, Gabriel’s gentle ministrations beginning to carefully piece his soul back together as well. “Sleep, _mi luna,”_ Gabriel whispers. “I’ll be here in the morning.”  
And so, he does.  
It’s hard to put yourself back together, but near impossible to do it alone. He’s so lucky he has his angel to help him.  
The last thing he remembers before drifting off into sleep is a gentle kiss on his temple, and Gabriel’s voice. _“Dulces sueños, mi luna.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a mood when I wrote this. I apologise if this has incorrectly portrayed anything.
> 
> Also apologies for google translate Spanish
> 
> Spanish – English  
> Pendejo: stupid/idiot/general insult  
> Amigo: friend  
> Mi luna: my moon  
> Mi amor: my love  
> Cariño: sweetheart  
> Dulces sueños: Sweet dreams


End file.
